Of Immortal Time
by Assassin.EzioAuditore
Summary: After the events at Skyfall, 007 finds that MI6 will move on-with or without M. The double-oh has to keep pace before he begins to slip again. But he won't be struggling with this alone. [I'm adding content for everyone. 00Q in later chapters, Bond action, and just some fun stuff. Please check this out!] *Cast modeled after Skyfall's cast. 00Q!* *T for now. It may change later.*
1. After the Fact

It all happened too fast and yet, time stood immortal.

Light from the fire brightens the interior of the church, coming in from the bonfire of Skyfall. Not by much, for shadows gather at the far corners of the walls. And from out those corners rise monsters not meant to be seen.

Silva lays crumpled on the floor, blood flowing slower around the hilt of Bond's hunting knife buried in his back. The gun on the floor gleams from where it fell from the ex-agent's fingers. Bleached blonde hair lays limp, its owner no longer living.

Bond's grip on M stays secure even if his hands shake. His steel-blue eyes plead with M to not leave him, to not close her eyes. The double-oh agent's mouth echoes his begging. Even still, warmth pools under Bond's right hand, the one clamped over the hole in M's leg.

Her expression strays from her stern exterior as M winces, shuddering. Her similar blue eyes, glazed with pain, drift close a moment. Heart lurching, Bond hugs her suffering body to him in a silly notion that she would stay safe in his arms.

"M…stay with me!" urges Bond, not daring to give her a little shake. To see M, the solid figure in the double-oh's frayed reality, crumbling, proves too much. The pain washes over M in ever growing waves and her breath hitches in her throat.

"….james…" The name passes her lips, almost too low to be counted as a whisper. Bond has to smile, a small twitch from corners of his mouth. A trickle of water runs a colder-than-steel path down the agent's back.

"I am here," Bond comforts M, finding his thoughts have disappeared. All of his attention focuses on her. She gazes up at him, too pale from blood loss, trembling as he trembles, but for different reasons.

"…I at least got one thing right," M whispers with the smallest of smiles. Her eyes flutter shut and a long breath escapes her. And then too much hits Bond at the same time. It all becomes tangled into a mess.

Repeating her name again and again, the agent cries for her to open her eyes. Tears slip from his blue eyes and down Bond's cold cheeks. They splatter on M's own cheeks, highlighted by the small flashlight Kincaid holds.

"James," a hand rests on Bond's shoulder and the gamekeeper kneels next to him, the flashlight placed on the floor. The agent doesn't respond and shows no indication of hearing him.

"James! Here, can't you contact someone?" Kincaid prods and places the earpiece in Bond's left ear. The earpiece crackles with life and it pulls Bond back into the present.

"007?"

Bond's heart finds an uncomfortable place in his throat. He struggles to say something, anything!

"Q! Send a rescue squad!" He manages to choke out, filled with urgency. The earpiece picks up the Quartermaster ordering such a squad to be sent. People shout at one another in the background.

"Who's been injured, 007?" Q presses and Bond can hear his fingers clacking over the computer keys.

"M's been shot," Bond voice cracks.

From the other end of the conversation, Q's fingers stop typing.

"She'll be fine, 007. We have a rescue squad on their way," replies the Quartermaster. His voice comes over strained even as his voice stays level.

"How long will it take?" demands Bond, fear making his words forced out with unintentional hostility.

"About twenty minutes-"

"She'll bleed out by then!" More silence follows the double-oh's accusation and Bond finds himself praying the brilliant, young Quartermaster has a solution to the dire problem. Regular trembles run M's broken frame.

After half a moment's pause, Q begins typing and talking again.

"…alright, tell them to cancel that squad…get contact with them… Relay the cords to them-Just hack the system if you must!" snaps the Quartermaster. Bond lets the orders wash over him, knowing they are meant for others.

"I've sent the closest medical helicopter to get her. They'll be there in a few minutes, 007."

Bond doesn't say anything, not trusting himself to talk. Without anything at his disposal besides a wet sweater, he sits down on the cobblestone floor and cradles M to him. The only thing left is to wait. Wait and hope that some errors could be corrected.

Was it minutes or hours when someone bends down to take M away? The double-oh agent snarls at the man and lashes out. Where is his gun? The attacker yelps and recoils back in time. Bond hesitates when a voice pierces the haze around him. Why is that voice so familiar…?

Some grabs Bond by his shoulders with force. Of course, this sends the agent into frenzy of struggling and fighting. Bond's glazed eyes do not see his surrounding; he only reacts by muscle memory.

"James, calm down!"

Kincaid's low rumble breaks through to him and Bond hesitates. The old gamekeeper doesn't wait another moment and ushers him out the church. Complying for a moment, Bond lets Kincaid lead him out.

"Wait-M?" the agent questions Kincaid, twisting his head to look for her.

"She's coming, lad. Come on." The gamekeeper gives Bond a nudge in the right direction. True to his word, three medics exit the church with M laid on a white stretcher. The sight seems to satisfy Bond and he doesn't protest again when he gets shoved into the helicopter.

Somehow the double-oh ends up placed on a small bench shoved against the side. Kincaid settles next to him, and M's stretcher locks into the floor. One medic breaks off from swarming around M and rummages through a compartment. He pulls out a thick blanket and hands it to Bond.

"Here, this'll keep you warm," the medic explains, "but take off your shirt first."

An odd request, but Bond peels off the sweater. He exchanges the drenched article of clothing for a white cotton shirt. Bond puts the shirt on and wraps himself up in the blanket after finding he needs warmth. Should he be able to feel his fingers?

When Bond's eyes rise, they freeze on the still and bloody M -there's too much blood- and two medics swarm around her with unnamed machines and medical items. M's eyes don't move under her closed eyelids as one medic inserts an I.V. and hooks up a blood bag.

Bond doesn't realize he begins to stand up until Kincaid pushes him back down into the seat again with an almost sympathetic look in his old eyes.

"Steady, she's being taken care of." His soothing tone does little to calm Bond down, more of Kincaid's order keeping him from rebelling. The double-oh needs something to follow, something steady or he'll fall. Like Skyfall, he would fall too.

With clear reluctance he settles down again, blue eyes filled with conflicting emotions. Ones the aged gamekeeper wants to decipher, but Bond tucks his head into his chest and pulls the blanket in tighter around him.

The same medic from before, a lanky looking man in his twenties with solemn eyes, brown hair, and light sunburn brushing across his nose and cheekbones, holds something out to Bond.

It takes a few seconds for Bond to realize that the man holds a cup, and in the cup dark brown liquid sloshes against the Styrofoam. Wind speeds increase, the helicopter blades whipping the air away.

Warmth spreads into the double-oh's trembling fingers as he wraps his hands around it. Distracted, his blue eyes penetrate the dark covering of night over the broken land. The helicopter rises into the air. It turns under guidance of its operator and heads back the way it came.

The once proud and impressive fortress reduced to rubble, still flickers with tongues of flame like a beacon. A member of the helicopter's kin lay amid the destruction, a twisted skeleton of metal and misery.

Skyfall ends with pain; History bears witness.

Kincaid watches James look out at the chaos. The emotions filter down to one. Agony plays across James's pale face as he beholds Skyfall, his childhood haunt, wasting to ashes. And the gamekeeper looks at the man, _really looks at him._

James was no longer the troublesome toddler that managed to cause mischief on chubby legs. He was no longer the grief-stricken teen hiding beneath the church, knowing his parents lay in the house, murdered.

Kincaid realizes with an unnerving jolt that he does not recognize the man sitting before him, shivering with a blanket draped across his broad shoulders, blood splattered across the his cheek, nor the hard lines around his mouth.

Bond takes a sip of the contents of the cup, and the sweet, smooth taste of hot chocolate registers on his tongue. He throws back his head and drains the cup. Settling back, Bond curls in on himself as if to ward any hostile thoughts. The double-oh agent lets everything wash over him, reacting to nothing anymore. He stares out at the mess he's created, numb.

Flames reflect against his dull eyes as wind cuts past the helicopter.

* * *

**I have to say, I am really proud of this chapter! It is my longest one yet! Was this sufficient? Thank you to everyone who read this and remember: reviews and replies would be greatly appreciated. I love to hear what you thought!**

**I have a basic story line that will continue this event. Sometimes I will have brief sections from another character's point-of-view.**

***Note: I am just creating my own back stories for this***


	2. 31 degrees C

Urgent shouting wakes the shivering double-oh. Bond peers up from the blanket and he freezes. All of the prior events come crashing together in a jumbled, tangled heap. The impossible, bright explosion as the helicopter crashes into the Skyfall. Silva, holding the gun to M's head, ready to pull the trigger-M!

The medics guide M's stretcher from the helicopter, helped by two others. With the utmost care, they scramble around to load her in the flashing, screaming ambulance waiting on the side. The doors swing shut and the car speeds off into the night.

Stunned, Bond stands up and pushes the blanket off, eyes wide with urgency. Where were they taking her? He staggers and catches the seat before he falls to the ground.

"Hey, are you alright?"

A middle-aged medic steps into the helicopter, offering a hand even as Kincaid offers his own. The gamekeeper watches Bond with a mixture of pity and concern.

The medic closer than Kincaid, Bond accepts the man's hand. As soon as he makes contact, the medic draws in a quick breath. His brown eyes travel over the blanket piled in the corner and to Bond's shaking form.

"Why didn't anyone notice-" the medic pauses a bit and a small smile appears, "Just sit back down, we don't want to move you just yet." At this, Bond gives the man a confused glance. Still, that little smile doesn't disappear.

"Just sit down; we need to check medical forms, please." The medic insists with the fake smile. As out of it as Bond is, double-oh training still kicks in. Suspicious, the agent looks the man over. What is he hiding?

"James, sit down like the man said," Kincaid orders, soft and firm. Bond settles back down on the bench, picking up the blanket and wrapping himself in it again. He doesn't remember the last time nights got this cold.

Eyes half closed, Bond watches the medic through an odd dream-like air. The man speaks low and fast into his cell phone, yet another act that puts everything off balance. Kincaid sits down next to Bond, giving him a side glance.

"Sir, what is your name?" The medic asks, his brown eyes locked on Bond. One hand holds the phone and the other grips a pen poised over a medical form.

"Bond. James Bond," the double-oh says, finding it hard to speak. Would they mind if he fell asleep? A short sigh escapes the agent as he pulls the blanket even tighter to him. It must have a hole somewhere; it doesn't seem to be doing any good.

Something clanks, jerking him awake again. Two people push another stretcher into view. Confused, Bond looks around. Was anyone else hurt? The sickening feeling in his gut grows when he can't find anyone injured. Kincaid wasn't injured, was he?

Then Bond feels the medics placing him onto the stretcher and for a moment, tenses up. Blue eyes wide with confusion, he struggles to sit up again. A hand on his chest pushes him down again.

"Sir, please, calm down. We just need to get you into the hospital and it would be faster if you didn't resist." A woman soothes Bond as she covers him with a thick blanket. All of Bond's training rebels.

"Why, what's wrong?" asks the agent, but be doesn't try to get up again. The woman tucks the first blanket in and adds another. Her soft eyes look up at him.

"You are a little cold. We just need to stabilize your body temperature," she informs Bond as the medics guide the stretcher into a waiting ambulance.

"I am fine," Bond insists, making the move to get up. The woman places a firm hand on his chest for a second time, pushing him back down. The agent almost lashes out as a reflex, but curbs his instincts in time. Two of the medics share a glance.

"James," begins Kincaid, hands resting on the open doors of the ambulance, "I'll be coming as soon as I can. Don't snap at anyone; they are trying to help you." With that, the doors close and the gamekeeper disappears from view.

Scowling, Bond lets the medic check his heart-rate. His blue eyes rake over the two medics and the inside of the ambulance. The other two went to the front.

"Who was that?" The woman asks, her blond hair swinging when the engine starts up. She lays a warm hand on the double-oh's left arm, turning it so the palm faces up. The other man, skin a deep tan, hands something to her. Both medics maneuver around the stretcher with proficiency born of practice as the car begins to move.

"Kincaid," Bond replies, not wanting to say more. He closes his eyes, too heavy to keep them open for long. He still shivers, goose bumps raised along his skin.

Gentle fingers probe the inside of Bond's left arm, and his hand jerks up to repel them before Bond checks his actions. Blue eyes open to see the woman raise a slight eyebrow. She doesn't say anything, but waits for him to relax again.

He does. Before Bond can say anything in protest, she inserts a needle into his vein. He doesn't seem to notice the small stab of pain. She frowns and hooks the IV up to a plastic bag filled with clear liquid.

"I am just going to take your temperature," she says and runs a thermometer across Bond's forehead. Sighing, his eyes close halfway. The thermometer beeps, finished. She looks at the result and scribbles it down on a form.

Whispering too low to hear, she shows it to her partner. Concerned, he whispers back to her. The second medic pulls out a small bag and squeezes it around the middle. Liquid splashes inside as he shakes the bag. He pulls out another and repeats the process.

"Are your muscles a bit tight?" The woman questions Bond, taking the compresses and tucking them under the blanket, on Bond's chest. Surprised, but pleased with the unexpected warmth, the double-oh nods his head.

"Richard, get the mask prepared. Put the oxygen at 41˚Celcius," (105.8˚F, for us Americans) orders the woman, kneeling next to the double-oh. She replaces the intravenous fluid for another bag as Richard pulls out a plastic half-mask with two tubes attached to the front.

"What's going on?" Bond demands, his gaze locked onto the woman. She turns to him, resting a hand on the agent's shoulder, discouraging him from getting up again. Warmth creeps up from the needle.

"Your body temperature has dropped. I've heated the IV fluid to help you warm up. The mask has heated, moist oxygen to help as well," She explains, "Do not talk or move anymore. Breathe normally."

Richard places the mask over Bond's mouth and nose, securing it in place. Resisting the urge to hold his breath, Bond breathes in the warm air, almost hot. The combined warmth from the IV and the mask makes trails of heat through Bond.

And his shivering stops even as all the strength in the double-oh's limbs disappear.

The woman pulls a phone off the wall, speaking into it, "Drive carefully, the patient is in critical condition. Notify the hospital ahead that he is suffering from N991."

Bond struggles to keep alert, but finds he fights another losing battle. Richard jumps into action, turning the temperature on the IV and the mask up. He unfolds another blanket and folds it over Bond.

"His heart rate is slowing. IV and mask temperature has been increased by one degree each," reports the medic, and checks the double-oh's temperature. Bond's eyes lock onto the man, filled with shock. Richard takes his temperature again.

"Don't jostle him!" She warns, sharp. Richard looks at the thermometer after a few seconds, "I know, Ash. Temperature at 31˚C and still dropping. " (87.8˚F)

Ash replies to Richard and vanishes from Bond's field of vision, but the double-oh can't understand anymore. Black slithers in on the edges. The last thing Bond sees is Ash's face over his, telling him words whose meaning pass over, silent.

* * *

**Aw, thank you guys so much! I love getting reviews and now I can't stop this silly grin across my face. Can't you tell I've done my medical research?**

**(And thanks for the reviews, makes my birthday that much more awesome!)**

**Prosper-the-XVIII: Thanks! And yes, I have plans for M…. :D You are one of my favorite James Bond fan-fic writers, so excuse the fan girl squeal. **

**LilyLunaPotter142: Can't you tell I love being mean to my characters? :3**

**RebaForever15: Bwahaha! Dear, you left a loop-hole…**


	3. Inability to Protect

With his bones creaking, Kincaid settles down in a plastic chair next to James. The old gamekeeper sighs, looking over James with weary eyes. Sunlight filters in between the light curtains, growing brighter over time.

James's chest rises and falls in a deep, slow pattern, still asleep. One arm peeks out beneath the hospital-issued blanket so the IV wouldn't be torn out if he moved, but only James's eyes move beneath his eyelids every so often.

Reaching forward, Kincaid holds James's hand in his own, pleased that his normal body temperature returned. Scenes of last night replay in the gamekeeper's mind. He remembers, shocked, when he glimpsed James as the medical team whisked him away.

The flat, pale color of James's skin and the mask placed over his mouth and nose all were to white. Remembering the nurses telling him James was in critical condition with a body temperature at 31˚C and still dropping.

And when the nurses asked for James's medical file, they couldn't find it. They searched other hospital data bases with the same result; James Bond didn't exist. The two nurses didn't know what to do. Kincaid offered health information he knew, and they accepted it with grateful looks.

The nurses asked him his relation to the patient when the phone rang. It was an odd conversation, Kincaid noted, just from hearing one side. The nurse listened for some time, and then nodded her head.  
"Yes sir, we understand," she had replied, "What should I tell…" She looked to Kincaid with a puzzled expression.

"I'm a family friend," the gamekeeper had offered. She flashed him a smile.

"Alright, I will do so. Ah, here it is!" She exclaimed, glancing at the computer. The nurse ended the conversation and typed on the computer. The printer sitting on the desk began spitting out papers.

"Lucy, give these to the team in Bond's room," she ordered and handed the papers to the younger nurse. She nurse printed another copy for herself and motioned for Kincaid to follow her. Along the way to James, she explained his files have been locked. She gave Kincaid a small smile when he had asked why, and responded with an evasive, "It's not my place to say."

And that is why the old gamekeeper sits next to James, waiting for an explanation. The file reported a long history of alcohol abuse, evidence of childhood trauma-Kincaid agreed with the assessment- and previous visits to hospitals, which was quite the list.

It had said that James had suffered through more than a few broken ribs and broken his wrist twice. It also spoke of deep, knife-inflicted wounds that had required stitches. Kincaid read, surprised that James was shot twice in the chest with almost fatal results.

Who was James Bond? A question Kincaid couldn't answer anymore, and it bothered him.

"-no, I don't know," a feminine voice says with a sigh. The door opens and the gamekeeper lets go of James's hand as if caught doing something he shouldn't. The nurse Kincaid was expecting ends up being a young woman with dark skin wearing tailored pants and a blouse.

She pauses, her hand on the door and her brown eyes flick from Kincaid to James like she knows she is intruding on something personal.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were in here," she apologizes, and inches the door closed. Kincaid smiles at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"No, it's fine. There's enough room for all of us." Kincaid says, patting the seat next to him. The young woman returns his smile and sits down, crossing her legs.

"My name's Eve," she says, extending a hand. A silver watch flashes on her wrist. The old gamekeeper accepts her firm handshake.

"Kincaid," he responds in kind," are you a friend of James, Miss Eve?" Kincaid wants to know, curious.

"I consider myself as one," Eve says with a small laugh, "and you?"

"A family friend," replies Kincaid, same as he told the nurses. Eve pauses, listening to something on the earpiece that Kincaid just noticed. That explains the talking earlier.

"Q, I'm not talking to you. Be quiet and stop bugging me," she rolls her eyes and winks at the gamekeeper, "I'll talk to you later, bye." Eve slips the earpiece into a pocket.

"Sorry about that, Q's a worrywart but he means well," she explains, noting Kincaid's amused expression. Standing up, Eve touches James's hand for a second before running her eyes over the clipboard stating his current health.

"Patient must remain in the hospital for 48 hours after recovering," quotes Eve, lifting a sheet of paper.

"The nurses are going to have fun trying to keep him in here," she says with a knowing smile, replacing the clipboard and sitting down again.

"What do you mean by that?"

Eve turns to Kincaid, a mischievous glint in her eye, "Have you ever seen Bond here listen to medical advice?" She nods to the sleeping James. Her hand pushes some of her dark brown curls behind her ear.

"I haven't been around him since he was young," Kincaid says, sharper than he had intended to be. But it stung him. This 'Eve' seems to know this James better than him.

The young woman, eyes wide, realizes her tactless blunder and would have tried to mend the situation if James hadn't stirred. Without saying anything, both of them stand next to James's side, waiting.

His breaths becoming normal again, James stirs again. Blue eyes open, and then shut with a soft groan. Only then does he notice the mask on his face. James's right hand comes up to rip it away until Eve strikes, pinning his hand back to the bed.

"Hey! Calm down," she orders when James's eyes fly open, double-oh instincts screaming at him to kick the person away, letting him get enough leverage before-oh wait, that's Eve. James settles back onto the bed, eyes glaring at Eve. The meaning in them is quite clear: YoubetterexplainbeforeIkicky ouoffofthisbed.

"Don't touch anything, 007. I don't know what all of this is doing for you." She soothes him, unable to hide a grin at Bond's death-glare. He attempts to say something in response, but it only comes out muffled and inaudible. Something along the lines of: I don't give a damn, Moneypenny, but if you value your bloody hand, get off! So Bond settles for a growl.

Kincaid watches the interaction. Since when did James react with such violence when touched? Since he's had enemies blow up Skyfall to get to him, another part of him says.

But Eve doesn't look fazed by the double-oh's hostility. She reaches out a hand and flicks the switch that calls for a nurse, careful not to provide Bond with any space to remove the mask.

"Now, stay put until this nurse gets here, alright? She'll tell you if you can take the mask off." She pulls her hand away from Bond's, and waits for him to react. The double-oh doesn't move, but fixes Eve under his unwavering stare.

Less than a minute later, a nurse pokes her auburn head into the room.

"Is everything alright-Oh, Mr. Bond, you're awake! Good morning," she greets in a cheerful tone, stepping into the room. The expression Bond gives the young nurse means anything but. A wry smile pulling the corners of her mouth up, she checks over the mask.

"Well, you don't need this anymore… Just hold still for a few moments…" The nurse detaches the tube running into the mask and pulls the offending object off of Bond's face.

"Do you remember anything from last night?" asks the nurse, taking out the IV and tossing the needle into the biohazard waste basket. Bond freezes, his eyes widening.

"Oh god, M!" He would have been out of the room before anyone could react, if not for the fact that he hadn't eaten for quite some time and the double-oh is still weak from the effects of hypothermia.

All three-visitors and the nurse- leap forward to stop him, but Bond had overestimated his strength. His muscles don't listen, protesting with exhaustion. And he stops, wincing.

"Mr. Bond, you aren't in any condition to be running around!" scolds the nurse as Eve gives him a little push, guiding him back into sitting position. The concern in James's eyes makes Kincaid wonder who 'Em' meant to him.

"Is she alive?" demands the double-oh, his eyes flicking from the nurse to Eve to Kincaid.

"Was this the older woman who was brought ahead of you?" The nurse inquires, keeping watch on him. She emits a calm aura in an effort to calm her agitated patient down again.

"Yes. Is M alright? Where is she?" Bond again tries and fails to get up. The nurse realizes that more harm than good would come from keeping information from him. Bond's blood runs cold, catching sight of the nurse's sympathetic expression. No…

"She had an embolic stroke last night after the doctors performed an operation to stop the bleeding. Her blood didn't clot right… and she's in a coma. I'm sorry, Mr. Bond."

* * *

**And scene! Bwahaha! Told you M's alive! For now...**

**Oh, you guys are spoiled rotten! One chapter after another? And Eve Moneypenny has made her appearance! **

**So I have a migraine and got to stay home all day. I shouldn't be looking at electronics, but I was bored. And I love you guys ;D**

**RebaForever15: Love you too! ;D Nope, I am a 00Q fan, all the way! I see M as a mother-figure to lovely Bond. Well, sometimes like a bickering, old married couple, but no ship. I just can't see it for some reason. ):**

**Prosper-the-XVIII: Thanks! I look up my stuff on the internet. One place called 'Mayo Clinic'. It's very helpful, just browse the internet, too ;D. James has hypothermia from jumping into that lake. Don't worry; I am only two years older than you! **

**LilyLunaPotter142: We'll have to see, won't we? * evil cackle***

**To anonymous Guest: Thank you! **


	4. The World Upside-Down

Surrounded by white sheets and a beeping heart monitor, M looks small and weak. An oxygen tube runs under her nose to provide the necessary air to her and an IV pumps the vital liquids through her veins.

Why did this all go so wrong?

Eve sighs, settling down in the plastic chair next to M's bed, pinching the bridge of her nose. All the stress in the last few days...or was it weeks? Hell, Eve can't quite remember. It all started when the hard drive was stolen and 007 was sent after the man. And then she, Eve Moneypenny, shot M16's best agent watched will horror as the double-oh fell of the bridge.

Eve had no words to describe the emotions running through her when she met Agent Bond face to face again. 007 looked worse for wear, but an understandable appearance after getting shot twice within a few minutes.

007...

And then this, all of Skyfall's terror. Hearing the agent over the comm, demanding for a medical team for the injured M. No, 007 didn't take the news of M's condition lightly.

Eve stands up, wanting to do something for M, but not knowing how. Without a word, she leaves.

What will happen to M16 now, with M in a coma?

* * *

**Sorry that was so short, but I have writer's block.**

**So I am going to New Mexico for spring break and I just wanted to tell you guys where I've been. I will write more over there, but don't expect an update until a week and a half from today, March 7th, 2012.**

**And would you guys be interested if I did another series with an Double-oh original character and Bond causing mayhem? NO slash!**

**I have a plot-line...sorta for Of Immortal Time. If you have any ideas on plot twist, don't be afraid to add it in a comment!**


	5. A Visit and an Exit

Too bad the doctors hadn't had Bond as a patient before, or they would have known better than to try and keep him inside the hospital. A lot of cursing-on Bond's part-, shouting, and pleading had occurred, disturbing the other patients until the medical staff relented and let James Bond leave with stern instructions not to eat anything too cold, stay away from cold water, and not to consume any alcohol. 'Bull' was the double-oh's response to the last one.

It took a few evasive replies to Kincaid's questions before the old gamekeeper realized that James wouldn't-or couldn't- say anything about his job or the recent events involving Skyfall. Kincaid didn't need James, however, to get the information. Headlines reporting Silva's attack on M16 blasted and pushed its way through the papers to the front page.

Newspapers also spoke of the injured head of M16, a woman referred to as 'M', and asked for her replacement. Kincaid, reading the papers, realized who the woman in the chapel was. It was not 'Em' James was saying, but the title 'M'.

The shredded remains of that article rest on the floor, torn in half and left on the rough carpeting. That is the first sight that greets Q when he opens the hotel room door. The young Quartermaster studies the printed text before stepping over the pile. The door closes with a quiet click.

Outlined by the weak light filing in from the window, Bond, wearing dark washed jeans and a long sleeved shirt, stares out of the large window, not moving even when the young man stands next to him. Low clouds drift over the city, sometimes letting go of their loads and pouring rain onto the citizens.

Q notes, with some relief, that the double-oh hasn't touched the alcohol he keeps in storage. Bond doesn't carry the sharp smell of it either. The conversation would have taken an…interesting turn if Bond had been intoxicated.

"007," Q says after a few moments, not turning to look at Bond. Q rests his hands on the windowsill, tracking a raindrop that smears itself across the glass.

"Quartermaster."

Wincing at the double-oh's cold response, Q tries to think how to approach him. He's walking on thin ice that creaks under his feet.

"Bond," the Quartermaster says in a soft voice, breaking the silence. Bond turns his head, looking at Q. The pain in the double-oh's eyes contradicts his nonchalant expression. The young man almost reaches up to lay a comforting hand on Bond's shoulder before checking himself.

Q doesn't know how Bond would react. Dealing with a double-oh isn't like dealing with an average person, but more along the lines of an attack dog. One false move and Q would get bit. It would be in Q's best interest to keep his distance and both eyes on Bond.

"Are you feeling better?" Q asks.

Bond shifts his weight, studying the man before him. The Quartermaster knows he's being analyzed. Brown eyes never stray from hard blue.

"I think we both know the answer to that," is Bond's cryptic reply, the double-oh switching his gaze back to the window. Q allows a humorless smile, just a subtle twitch of his lips. Bond has deflected the question without fault.

"M-Gareth Mallory- wanted me to tell you that he'd like to have a report on the events involving Silva," Q informs him, correcting his slip when Bond's gaze snaps back to him, "When you're ready, of course."

"He's gotten in position rather quick," Bond says in an unreadable tone. Q freezes, wondering if the storm is about to hit, but Bond continues talking, "I'll be down later."

The Quartermaster decides not to press him. Nodding to the double-oh, Q makes his way back to the door. He opens the door, about to exit the hotel room when Bond says his name.

"Q?"

The young man pauses in mid stride and looks back, "Yes?"

"Thank you."

* * *

Noon rolls around, finding Bond sauntering into M16, now wearing his typical black suit paired with a blasé expression. The double-oh holds a manila folder in one hand which he lays on the desk in front of M's office.

"Hello, Mr. Bond," Eve says, looking up from the computer. She perches in a chair, her cheery blouse-this time a soft yellow- contrasts with the dark materials surrounding her. Papers lay in organized piles on her small desk.

"Miss Moneypenny," Bond greets with a disarming smile, "You have accepted a desk job then, I gather."

Eve flashes him a mischievous smile, "I did," she agrees, "I decided that field work wasn't for me. My aim isn't exactly up to par."

Bond responds affirmative, "I would agree." The door next to Eve's desk opens, and Mallory steps out. He catches sight of Bond, "007, a word, if you please."

Bond notes the sling on Mallory's arm from where he took a bullet for M. He can't be too bad, could he?

"Of course, sir," says the double-oh, following Mallory into the office.

The office hasn't changed much when its owners have been switched. M never kept anything personal inside but a few flowers to add a feminine touch. Now empty spaces are the only reminder where the previous occupants stood.

With a pang of sorrow, Bond realizes that the bulldog with the Union Jack draped over it is gone. The double-oh hopes that someone had salvaged it before Mallory took up residence.

"007," Mallory begins after they both sat down, "I want to talk about the recent events concerning you." Mallory leans forward, his navy blue suit creasing.

"I've given the paperwork to Eve, sir."

Mallory gives a small shake of his head. "That's not what I meant."

Confusion shows in the double-oh's eyes before Bond stifles his emotions. He raises an eyebrow.

"Sir?"

Mallory sighs, pulling out a file and flipping it open. Stapled papers rustle together as Mallory lays them on his desk. The double-oh watches him with mild curiosity.

"It's about your evaluations," says Mallory, and Bond knows where this is going.

"Sir-"

Mallory silences Bond with a glare from his hazel eyes.

"007, I can't clear you for field work. All of this," Mallory taps the papers, "tells me you are unfit for field work."

Bond feels irritation beginning to emerge. He begins to protest, "Sir, I was fine in the field. You were there when she cleared me-"

"I am not her, 007. I am telling you that you can't fail these examinations and expect to waltz back into action." Mallory replies, his words forceful. The new head of M16 tries to take control over the situation.

Bond responds with the same ferocity, "And I'm telling you that I _can_ work in the field. Those bloody tests don't amount to anything out there."

The double-oh doesn't remember when he and Mallory stood up, but their voices have increased in volume. Both men glare at each other with similar stubbornness.

"007," snaps Mallory, again trying to keep control over Bond, his patients running thin.

"I can handle myself-"

"Like how you handled Skyfall out there, 007? How you failed to protect the former M?" demands Mallory.

When Bond's eyes widen, Mallory knows he's crossed the line. Whatever boundaries 007 had established, he had just walked right on and shattered them.

Cold, hard fury replaces the hurt and shock in the double-oh's blue eyes, now narrowing to dangerous slits. Any feelings of curiosity-and possible acceptance- for Mallory have fermented into strong, bitter hate.

Mallory tenses, half expecting 007 to do something irrational. Bond realizes he's shifted himself into a fighting stance. Turning on his heel, Bond stalks out of the office.

* * *

**About time for another update! I hope this was soon enough(and long enough), all my readers!**

**Sorry guys, I was busy and then I had Migraine attacks from Hell. D: Is this an appropriate update? **

**Thank you, Badass Cat, for all your previous reviews. Nice to know I spoiled the movie for you ;P Can't you tell I love cliffhangers?**

***and just for a side note, I do not live in England-nor anywhere close- or know much about anything there... So my dialect will be off, but I'll try!***


	6. That Bloody Double-oh

**I have been neglecting you, my readers! I apologize deeply! But this silly chapter refused to be written. I know where I want to go, but I couldn't find a place to start. Grrr... **

Furious, Bond strides out of the main office area, bypassing a startled Eve. The new secretary stares after the double-oh, wondering what on earth made him act like that. Bond tends not to let anything-or anyone-get on his nerves, but maybe Mallory has a special talent.

This is going to be fun.

The new Head of M16 steps out of his office and Eve turns her attention to him. Mallory watches Bond turn a corner and then sighs.

"Sir, is everything alright?" Eve dares to ask. 007's paperwork lays open on her desk, the pages in the middle of being looked over. It seems that the report on Mr. Silva will have to wait until later.

"No," M says, exasperated, "How did _she_ deal with these double-ohs?"

"With humor and a tolerant attitude, I suspect." Eve offers with a small smile. As helpful as the double-ohs are, they're notorious for being difficult to handle. And that doesn't even scratch the surface with 007.

M makes a sound of agreement, "I don't know how she managed. They're worse than some of these terrorist we hunt down."

"That's why we have them, sir."

"Keep an eye on 007 for me, Eve. I want to know if he's done anything irrational," orders M, and then heads off to check up on the various branches of M16. Eve sighs and turns back to the folder, scanning the pages.

_I'll just have to make sure he doesn't get a hold of anything explosive. He'll cool down in a bit. _Eve thinks, deciding to give Bond some space. She doesn't want to get her head bitten off.

* * *

At the sight of the double-oh striding down the halls, employees and interns scramble to get out of his way. No one dares to make a sound, least they should reflect Bond's mood onto themselves.

Fury roars in the double-oh's ears. Bond takes turn after turn, distancing himself from the problem. It is not the best tactic, but one that keeps blood off the floor. If Bond was in the field and M made such a remark, he wouldn't have known what hit him. But he isn't in the field and M is his superior.

The double-oh realizes where his feet have guided him. Scattered bursts of gun fire shatter the otherwise quiet room. Only a few of the firing lanes have agents honing their aim.

Bond pauses, and relaxes his shoulders to forget everything. He picks a lane towards the center, a similar distance from the exit and entry points. And the double-oh focuses on the target ahead of him, black lines bold against the white background.

After a few shots, Bond halts in his shooting and studies the board. He swears under his breath, pulling out of his shooting stance. The holes from the bullets miss the center of the chest, straying near the lower right side.

_Of course_, Bond thinks with disgust, rolling his right shoulder. The bullet wound pulls, protesting. _Nothing has changed since I took that test. _

The double-oh turns away from the shooting range and heads back into the old passage ways that is M16's compound.

_Silva was right._ _I am not ready._

* * *

Q gauges how his employees are working when the Quartermaster hears the almost inaudible sound of footsteps. Everyone single person scrambles to their own desk to work in silence. No one's eyes stray from their tasks. There are only three people in M16 that could quiet everyone in the room without a word, and Q can rule out one.

Bond appears at Q's side, blue eyes narrowed. Even without really looking at Bond, the young man can tell the double-oh's mood borderlines fury, if his tight expression is anything to go by.

Q, looking up from his laptop, knows better than to play their usual game of words.

"What is the matter, 007?" He asks in a wary, neutral tone. Q's fingers halt typing as he studies Bond behind his glasses, giving the double-oh his full attention. What could have ever put Bond in such a mood?

"I have been declared unfit for fieldwork." The snarl in Bond's voice would be hard to miss.

"What?" Q says, blinking, "But M passed you. I heard her myself," The Quartermaster replies, shocked. The other employees in Q branch listen into the conversation as they work.

"I didn't pass it," Bond admits in a low tone, only loud enough for Q to hear him. The double-oh shifts his gaze to the room. Some of the techs discover their paper work is more interesting than the conversation at hand. His blue eyes snap back to the Quartermaster.

"Yes you did. Barely, but you did." Q insists again, recalling when M-the previous M- had let Bond return to find the terrorists. The double-oh didn't pass with flying colors, but Bond had managed to claw his way to the minimum score.

"No, I didn't, Q. Listen to me," Bond repeats again, regaining the Quartermaster's full attention. Q pauses, and then frowns.

"But that doesn't make any sense…" He murmurs, and then turns to the laptop, fingers flying over the keys. The Quartermaster pauses, reading the report on the screen. He stays quiet for a few moments.

"Then why did she clear you?" Q says to himself, a rhetorical question more than anything else. Bond has no answer.

Q studies the laptop as if it has done him personal offence. Without a word, Q types in commands and a new window pops up. He scrolls through it, eyes flicking from both documents.

"Since the last examination you took in August, your scores have plummeted," Q says, distracted because he still compares the documents.

"I am aware of that, _Quartermaster_," Bond says with a sarcastic edge, leaning against the Q's table. Q decides not to comment on that one. Both stay silent for a few moments, one of them gathering his thoughts and the other watching the first.

"Is Eve's shot the one that is still bothering you?" inquires the Quartermaster, accepting paperwork from an intern brave enough to approach them.

"No, it is Patrice's," Bond corrects in an impartial tone. He turns his critical gaze back to the room. The double-oh makes notes of the positions of desks and people as an automatic reflex. An important idea that has been drilled into every field agent's head: Be alert and tuned into your surroundings.

"What are you going to do about all of this, then?" Q breaks Bond's thoughts, sipping tea from his Q₁₀ mug as he reads through the papers.

"It is simple; I am going to pass them."

When the Quartermaster looks up, Bond has disappeared. Q's lips twitch in a small smile.

_That bloody double-oh. _

* * *

_**It is so nice to see everyone again! I am sorry for lack of updates and I will try consistently from now on. **_

_**Prosper: You will have to wait until next chapter! ;P **_

_**BadassCat: Damn right! Bond=Sexy! Yes, I want the china bulldog back too ;P **_

_**Lily: And on Mallory's first day on the job too! ;D **_


	7. A Sparrow

I'm back, my lovely readers! ;D I apologize for my long absence, but I have now found the drive to write again! I think school is the best time for me to write. 'Of Immortal Time' is a wonderful break ;P

I have made my move successfully, which is a relief. Boxes are still everywhere, but we still fight a gallant war! My new school is huge and I can't wait to get started! High school, here I come!

Without further chatter, here is the seventh chapter!

* * *

Chapter VII

_A week later…_

"Excuse me?"

Mallory sighs, but fixes the stunned double-oh with a no-nonsense look. M places a manila folder on the table before Bond. The double-oh picks it up, a shadow of confusion pacing over his eyes. And then Bond narrows his eyes, his mouth tightening in distaste.

"You're assigning me a _partner_?" Bond asks, his tone colored with disbelief.

"Don't sound too excited, 007," remarks Mallory with dry sarcasm. He stands up, a cue for Bond to rise from his chair. Both exit M's office, M walking half a pace ahead of Bond.

"Sir," begins Bond, the folder still clasped in one hand.

"Don't whine, 007. You sound like a child," scolds M. His comment makes Bond hold his tongue. M continues talking.

"As I was saying, I have decided to partner you up with a new agent. She has shown admirable skills and she might be worthy of double-oh status."

"And you have chosen me because…?" Asks the double-oh, questioning M's choice. It didn't make much sense. Not at all. He, James Bond, of all people should be _dead last_ on the list for partner choices. Hell, Bond shouldn't even be on that kind of list.

M gives Bond a slide glance, "I want your judgment. I believe you can make the decision concerning our new agent." Bond didn't know what to say to that statement. Mallory turns down another hallway, heading down the familiar hallway to Q branch.

People walk along the main hallway, turning off into their various places. Harsh lights outline small, thin stalactites that hang from cracks in the concrete. Dark rooms and hallways branch off the main hall, closed with yellow caution tape. The sharp smell of new, industrial equipment mingles with the musky smell of the unused tunnels buried underground.

M walks into Q branch, nodding at those who greet him. As always, Q branch is bustling with activity. While scanning the room, Bond spots the lanky form of Q at his desk, talking to a woman. M nods to Bond, following his gaze. The two men advance to meet the newest agent.

"And this is your new Walther PPK," says Q as he hands the new agent the gun. The Quartermaster's eyes flick up at Bond and M's approach. The new agent turns, her soft brown eyes running over Bond even as the double-oh studies her. He is struck by how young she looks. Maybe she is in her mid-twenties?

The new agent's eyes peek out behind long lashes, her, dark brown hair framing her face in what used to be a bob hairstyle. Her high cheek bones give her an exotic appearance. She stands a handful of inches shorter than the double-oh, even with heels. She wears an elegant, simple navy blue dress. A pair of silver earrings adorns her ears, half hidden by waves in her hair.

"I want this back, if you please. Don't feed it to anything," the Quartermaster instructs her, giving Bond a half-glare. Bond raises his hands in mock surrender. Q is the only one besides Eve who can tease him without worried about any sort of… penalty.

"I don't try to destroy everything you give me," he says in defense. Thinking back on it, Bond never makes _plans_ to destroy his gifts from Q-branch. It seems to just happen. Much to every Quartermaster's annoyance. The double-oh is quite sure he leads the agents in the race to drain M16's bank account.

Q rolls his eyes. "You let a _Komodo dragon_ eat it, 007." The other agent gives them a small smile. Dimples appear in her tan skin. She extends her hand to Bond. Her nails have been manicured, for the tips arch in perfect curves and they glisten under a clear coat of polish. Don't ask how Bond knows these things.

"Rebecca Sparrow," She introduces herself, her smile spreading. Bond gives her a smile in return. So far, Bond hasn't found anything wrong with the new field agent. She is young, pretty, and she must be smart to get into M16. But if she can handle herself in the field, under fire… that's something else entirely.

"Bond, James Bond."

M nods, pleased. "Now, I have a simple task for both of you. You two are going to work together to complete it. I want a report as soon as you get here. Q will give you the details."

Q then tugs the folder out of Bond's hand. The Quartermaster looks over the file before handing each agent another folder. Bond receives another gun, giving Q a hurt expression when this one can't read his palm print. Q laughs and tells Bond he better bring it back. Then he will reconsider.

"Hopefully, this shouldn't be too complicated. You need to tail your target…." Q begins, pulling up pictures on his laptop. Bond meets Sparrow's eyes before they both settle themselves to listen to their briefing.

_The next day_

"Are you nervous?" Bond asks after he secures the luggage above his head. The morning sun files in from the small windows on the side of the airplane. Quiet now, the great engines lay in wait for take-off. Flight attendants pace up and down the aisle, assisting passengers by answering questions, proving help if they need it, and anything else their job requires.

"A little," Agent Sparrow admits, pushing her purse under the seat when Bond sits down. Her wavy hair has been pulled up into a high bun again, giving her a no-nonsense look. She wears a deep red V-neck, a simple silver pendant hanging from her necklace, and black slacks.

"Are you afraid of flying?" The double-oh questions her, noticing her tense shoulders. Agent Sparrow fiddles with a delicate ring around her left ring finger. _She must be married._ Her soft brown eyes look up to Bond's blue and she blushes a little, "Flying doesn't bother me, but heights do."

The double-oh reclines in a more comfortable position in the chair. Other people occupy a few other seats, but, thankfully, it isn't too crowded. Two business men sit across the aisle, two rows down, talking to one another in quiet voices. A woman rests a few rows behind the agents, her eyes closed. No one sits near Bond and Sparrow, and the double-oh assumes Q had something to do with it. Some privacy is nice, but Bond knows it is never absolute.

"Really?" he asks, accepting a drink from the stewardess. "Are you going to be fine when we take off? Do you need me to hold your hand?" teases Bond with one of his infamous smiles. Rebecca gives him a withering, but equally teasing glare.

"As if I'd want help from you," she retorts. Bond chuckles and takes a sip of his drink.

"I'm sure you're going to want my help before this is done. You have no idea what you are getting yourself into." He murmurs, keeping his voice low. As long as this new 'agent' could aim and shoot with accuracy, the mission shouldn't be too painful.

* * *

Welcome to my new OC! Rebecca Sparrow! Before anyone starts worrying, No, Bond is not going to fall in love with her. I have something else planned ;3 It is so great to see y' all again.

If you can, reviews would be wonderful! I want to know what you guys are thinking. I won't be afraid to accept other ideas and criticisms. Have at me!


	8. Icelandic Trails

**For any of you who have ever been to Iceland and you find a mistake, please don't be afraid to correct me! **

**And my readers got lucky this time around. Over two thousand words in this chapter! It's Christmas! **

* * *

Clouds tumble over one another, playing among the great expanses of the open, clear skies. A small breeze weaves in and out, seeking for its own source of fun among the small Icelandic town, Heimaey. The buildings and houses sprawl in the valley, mountains border lining the coast. Volcanic rock had intruded onto the harbor's waters in the beginning of the year, 1973. While destroying half the town upon Heimaey-meaning 'Home Island', the lava had increased the size of the 13.4 square kilometers (5.2 sq miles).

Somewhere in the center of the town's population of almost five thousand, a couple chats over cups of steaming hot chocolate. To any onlookers, the two seem to be long lost friends or romantic partners, for allusions are made to shared anecdotes with laughs and inquiries about others.

The man laughs after a particularly funny anecdote, his expressive blue eyes bright with humor. The ebb in the conversation lets both parties enjoy their warm drinks. Mischievous brown eyes peer over the rim of the ceramic mug.

"I never thought this would be so much fun, _Brad_." Rebecca Sparrow teases, referring to James Bond by his alias. Her fingers wrap around the mug, soaking in the warmth. The sun has yet to chase the night chill away from the Icelandic island. That explains the green, fleece lined jacket and silver scarf that she wears. And the flared jeans that makes Agent Sparrow look really good. Not that Bond noticed.

'Brad' relaxes in the wooden chair, his black leather jacket unzipped over a grey sweater. The double-oh looks impeccable as always, even in everyday clothes. Rebecca discovers that Bond doesn't need a well tailored suit to make him look sculpted. Bond already is.

"Oh, you'd be surprised, Kate." Bond replies, finishing off his own drink. "Sometimes you just need to be away from work for a bit." He replaces the mug back onto the table and checks his watch. It is almost half past nine. The hiking tour would be leaving soon. Devin Warren, the target of Bond and Sparrow's tailing mission, would be joining the tour of the Icelandic mountains.

To the seasoned double-oh, the mission could not be easier. All Q required was that a small device would be placed near Warren's laptop while the man was busy doing other things. Then Q-branch would have enough time-and the means-to hack into his laptop. A mission that required no interrogating, no killing, and absolutely no explosives. The scrawny little Quartermaster had hammered that idea into Bond's head. The mission should go off without a hitch.

To Rebecca Sparrow, the newest field agent in MI6, this mission meant everything. She had the luck-or misfortune, depending on what rumors she listened to- of landing 007 as her first partner on her first mission. Everyone talked about Bond's competence. He is unanimously voted as the best agent within MI6. But that doesn't mean dark rumors haven't been sneaking in and out of Sparrow's ears the past few days. Everyone, it seemed, feared for her life. Bond prefers to work by himself, not trusting anyone else. Rebecca hasn't seen any sign of that behavior -thankfully.

Maybe Bond was so accepting of his partner because she doesn't know any habits that he doesn't like. She didn't have any habits in the first place, so there is no need for Bond to correct any bad ones. Whatever the reason, Rebecca has found this mission almost enjoyable. If she forgot about the fact that she is supposed to be planting something onto her target, this trip to an Icelandic town could almost be counted as a vacation.

"Are you ready for the hike?" Bond inquires, his hands slipping into his jacket pockets. Rebecca takes one last sip of her heavenly hot chocolate before put it-a bit reluctantly- down next to Bond's. The sorrowful expression on the young woman's face makes the double-oh chuckle.

"We can always get more, babe." He says with a laugh, standing up before offering Rebecca his arm. Agent Sparrow accepts his offer, but arches an eyebrow at him.

"Mmm...babe?" She whispers the last bit with a teasing smile. Bond kisses her lightly on the cheek. Rebecca blushes-the perfect reaction-and intertwined their fingers.

"Of course. We've just got married, remember?" Bond replies with another smile. He raises their hands to study the simple ring that adorns the fourth finger on his left hand. To not draw any attention to themselves on this mission, Q had proposed as going as a newlywed couple. This trip's excuse could be their honeymoon.

"How could I forget?" Rebecca replies, returning Bond's kiss. And by forget she means remember. Q's underlings had downloaded pictures of the ceremony to both of their phones and cameras. It just so happened that she let them photoshop her own wedding pictures. Rebecca had to admit, some of the employees had way too much time on their hands if they could make it look like Bond was really there.

Bond hums in response, blue eyes gleaming. The two undercover agents make their way to the bus stop, holding hands and walking in step. And all sorts of other small motions that designate them as a couple.

Their target and his wife wait on a weathered wooden bench, a map open across their target's lap. Warren, a supposed businessman on holiday with his wife, pulls no extra attention from the crowd. His broad shoulders and small waist label his very typical body type as male. Warren's aquiline nose, knowing hazel eyes than gleam beneath his brow, and broad jaw cast gentle morning shadows across his face.

His wife, a blond, wispy kind of woman, points out various places on the map. Rebecca raises herself onto her toes and whispers in Bond's ear. The corners of his eyes crinkle when Agent Sparrow refers to the wife as a 'fragile little thing." It seems the newest agent is not impressed with Warren's spouse.

As planned, Rebecca stumbles when they walk by Devin. She reaches out with an outstretched hand to steady herself. Devin Warren, being the gentleman he has pretended to be, catches her wrist to provide a solid support.

"I am so sorry!" Rebecca apologizes, straightening up with his help, Bond already reaching forward. Her other hand brushes against the side of his laptop case. No one but the double-oh could notice the small black device that snags on the fabric.

"Are you alright?" Warren inquires, brown eyes studying Rebecca and Bond. Nothing gives him any reason to be alarmed. A couple on a vacation shouldn't draw a second glance, and they don't.

"Yes, I'm fine. Thank you." Rebecca recovers, taking her hand from Warren's. She brushes the wet dirt from her jeans, darkening the fabric. She frowns at the stains, patting them with more vigor. "These were my favorite jeans." She sighs, giving up.

"Dirt will come out," Bond soothes, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. Janett, the wife, jumps up from her seat brandishing a few napkins from a breakfast restaurant.

"Here you go, dear. This might help." Mrs. Warren offers, kneeling down next to Rebecca. Rebecca thanks the older woman many times while they both attack the dirty jeans. Bond stakes a few steps out of their space.

"Never get between a woman and her favorite pair of jeans," Bond comments aloud, watching Rebecca with an amused expression. Warren chuckles next to him.

"I agree," Warren replies. He then turns to Bond and extends a hand. "Devin Warren."

Bond accepts his hand with a firm shake. "Bradley Curtis." He introduces himself, then motions to his wife. "This is Kate, my wife." Rebecca looks up and smiles at them both before returning to her task at hand.

"You are from England, yes?" Warren inquires, placing Bond's accent. Bond nods affirmative. The american doesn't miss anything. He had to be good if he organized smuggling across the middle east.

"We're on our honeymoon," Rebecca interjects, slipping under Bond's arm. She pulls her jacket tighter against her body, shivering. Bond, in turn, wraps an arm around her waist and gives her another kiss. Both play their parts beautifully.

"Congratulations, dear!" Janett gushes, beaming at them both. Devin exchanges a loving glance with her. He could remember the evening after their wedding and the honeymoon that followed. The chance to share a vacation with someone who he loved had made its lasting impression.

The bus arrives while Janett and 'Kate' chat about their wedding experiences, talking with increasing enthusiasm. 'Brad' and Devin board the bus after the two women, settling into a commonplace discussion about business and other mundane topics such as the weather. Bond sends a text to Q stating that they have gotten themselves settled and they are about to begin the hike. In other words, Q-branch has the go ahead to hack into Warren's laptop. Four hours should be more than enough time for them while Bond and Rebecca enjoy the crisp weather.

* * *

The lock chirps as it accepts Agent Sparrow's room key. She pushes open the weathered wooden door to their room. A large, king-sized bed takes up the middle of the room. Pale yellow wall paper with soft designs, white and light blue bedding, and sand colored carpet give the room the idea of a beach. Two suitcases sit empty in the open closet, their contents either hanging above them or in the drawers of the dresser. The weathered furniture adds a hospitable aura to the charm. Bond had been pleased with the room while his partner had fallen in love with the jacuzzi within the first few hours.

Rebecca tosses her backpack next to the closet with a well aimed throw before collapsing onto the bed in a fit of giggles. The young woman buries her head into the pillow, brown hair spreading about her in a halo effect. Bond raises an eyebrow in an amused expression, closing the hotel door behind him.

"Is there any particular reason why you are laughing or do I need to be concerned?" Bond inquires, setting his own backpack next to his partners. He chooses to recline in the very comfortable leather chair that makes the table into a desk. It already has been adjusted to the double-oh's preferences and the indentation of his back could be seen if someone peered close enough.

Rebecca sits up in the middle of the bed, stifling her mirth and wiping her eyes. "Oh, there are multiple reason, Mr. Bond." Bond gives her an expression that encourages an explanation.

"Is it nerves?"

"Yes, that and then some. You know how frightened I was to realize I would be paired with the most dangerous agent in all of MI6? On my first mission, no less? After all I heard about you and the field." Rebecca laughs quietly to herself. Yes, hysteria seems to have touched her voice, after all. Bond doesn't worry about it. The first mission is always the most nerve wracking.

"You shouldn't listen to the gossips. They have nothing better to do besides sit at a desk and file paperwork." Bond replies, pulling a bottle of water out of the mini-fridge before tossing it in Agent Sparrow's direction. She snags it out of the air with ease. The seal on the cap pops as she unscrews the lid and drinks some water.

"You know about the rumors?" She questions after having calmed down a bit. The danger-for the most part-has passed and now she and Bond could relax at the hotel before their next plane.

Bond's smile turns predatory. "I encourage them."

Rebecca chuckles at that before finishing the bottle. She lays back down right as her stomach complains with an audible grumble. The young woman blushes embarrassed pink when Bond laughs.

"Did that hike give you an appetite?" Bond looks up from reading Q's text. Q-branch had gotten a hold of everything they needed and left no trace of their passing. They had enough evidence to pinpoint the source of the smuggling and put a stop to it. Devin Warren should be in court by the end of the month.

"One thing you should know about me, Bond, is that I am always hungry." Rebecca responds with a smile. Her hair tumbles down in a messy cascade, almost covering her eyes. Bond can't deny that Rebecca is a beautiful woman with a sparkling personality. Whoever married had to be very lucky indeed.

"At least you aren't afraid to admit it," he mutters. He gets a pillow thrown at him for his troubles. It hits the side of Bond's face with a soft _whump_ and falls to the floor. Blue eyes snap up in disbelief.

"Was someone being snarky?" Rebecca demands with a touch of humor. Another pillow is fisted in her hand, waiting to be thrown.

Bond raises his hands in surrender, mouth crinkling in a grin. "I surrender! Would room service be part of the conditions of surrender?" He teases, ducking under another launched feather-stuffed projectile.

Rebecca's smile twists into a wicked grin. "Add the hot chocolate and I will consider."

"Done," The double-oh replies without missing a beat. Yes, James Bond might be looking forward to working with young Agent Sparrow.

* * *

**This is just a fun chapter dedicated to setting up the relationship between Rebecca Sparrow and James Bond. Does everyone think this is all right? **

**And LilyLunaPotter142 pointed out that I have been writing 'M16' instead of 'MI6'. I do apologize for the mix-up in later chapters. I was typing on my dad's old computer and he used to write army stories. The computer was automatically correcting my spelling even though I didn't need it to. I'll be working on that over the next few weeks. Thanks so much, dear! **

**This is also the first chapter typed up onto my new laptop 3 I now can work on this during school! I hope all of you that are still in school are having a blast! **

**Remember that reviews make my day! **


	9. The Beginning of Q

**Here's a chapter dedicated to the history of Q. Enjoy, my fabulous readers! 3**

* * *

The young man, typing at the main desk in Q-branch, has always been known to them as Q. Not another word has even been breathed to anyone else concerning his real name. Q has always been Q. The employees assume he was given the title after the hacker accepted the high ranking position. That's where they're wrong, in multiple cases.

A smile quirks the corner of the Quartermaster's house as he listens in on Q-branch gossip. They always assume that Q is entirely too busy to pay any attention to the conversations in his own branch. And the young man is reminded why they address him as 'sir.' They are idiots, the lot of them.

There are three common topics that cycle out during the downtime Q-branch calls their breaks. Mallory has been a person of interest of late. Q-branch is still deciding how they feel about the newest head of MI6. Some are glad to see the 'old woman' go, while Q silently disagrees at his desk. M was the one who had insisted he accepted the job here.

James Bond is the big instigator of the sharp whispers and the flushed cheeks in the female employees. And also a fair number of guys. Every time the double-oh stalks into Q-branch, half of the workers almost implode with lust. Each glance from those glacial blue eyes sends some poor girl running, stammering about nonsense. Q knows that Bond knows what he's doing. He doesn't mind as long the bloody double-oh doesn't bother them while Q is trying to get some work done.

And Q-branch also likes to talk about their very own boss. Q doesn't even bat an eye when employees ask him personal questions fueled by the craving of the latest gossip about the young man. He just ignores the inquiry and deflects it.

All sorts of questions are asked. One of the big ones is what is Q's real name, age, and how the hell did such a young man become the head of Q-branch in MI6? Q has to stifle a chuckle. He remembers that day very well. The day he decided to hack MI6.

* * *

_Alexander Holmes lounges in the small leather chair positioned before his desk, a cup of Earl Grey tea perched next to his right hand. After a long day of controlling middle schoolers, the cosy flat had relaxed the tense lines of his mouth and shoulders as soon as he stepped through the door. His jacket had been tossed onto one of the kitchen table chairs. The professional shoes lay in a haphazard pile next to the door._

_Alexander Holmes tilts his head at a slight angle, studying the sleek laptop before him. It is the most expensive item in the flat and just buying it had cut into the young man's savings, . A substitute teacher doesn't make much in a year, but it had been worth it._

_He remembers staring at the laptop when it first arrived at his flat. The perfect keys and the perfect screen had Alexander in paradise. No longer would he have to work off the slow-as-pond-water dinosaurs at the school. That was also a few months before the young man had discovered his aptitude for hacking. Coding lines in the endless lines of ones and zeros had a certain appeal to him. Alexander had been the perfect target for bullies. With his slim figure that didn't hold anything past toned muscle, his pale and freckled complexion, messy hair, and glasses labels him as the anti-social genius. The truth had stung Alexander in the years of middle school before he had told himself that one day he could take bullies and other hateful people on. He never imagined that he could accomplish that through just a laptop and wi-fi._

_The young man's fingers stretch over the keys, thinking over his move. He itches for a challenge that could distract him from the bills he scrapes to pay and the stress of rambunctious teenagers. Alexander's homepage draws his attention. The news blasts headlines across the screen reading: MI6 UNDER ATTACK! HACKER BLOWS UP BUILDING, LEAVING EIGHT DEAD AND MANY IN CRITICAL CONDITION._

_Alexander clicks on the link, bringing him to the article. It seems that MI6 was hacked into last evening. How good would you have to be to hack into a secret service? He wonders before an idea halts him in his tracts._

_"There is only one way to find out, right?" He asks himself. The young man secures his connection, erases any sign of his laptop, and then begins to flitter through the web using spiders of his own design. Alexander makes sure to deflect his signal through multiple computers across England in a perpetual circle. It would not bode well for him if he was caught trying out his abilities. Jail doesn't seem to be a nice place to live, even if it is free._

_After a few minutes of searching, Alexander locates the MI6 server. His fingers rest on the keys as the young man studies the impressive virtual fortress before him. Firewall after firewall encircle the collections of files that contain such compromising data. Curiosity has Alexander already noting the small flaws in the system's security._

_A deep sigh fills the isolated flat. Alexander checks to ensure he is still anonymous . He is. Fingers flying over the keys, Alexander allows a small smile. This could be very interesting._

* * *

_Tanner, M's personal assistant, reaches for his tablet when a small dings alerts him of a message. A few important figures in MI6 turn in his direction , distracted from the meeting set up by M herself. Ignoring them, Tanner glances at the screen._

**_URGENT MESSAGE FROM Q-BRANCH:_**

**_To M: We're being hacked!_**

_The PA stifles a swear before schooling his features into a more professional expression. M glances over at Tanner when he motions in his chair._

_"What is it, Tanner? It better be important." Snaps the stern head of MI6. She always remains professionally detached from the people that make up MI6. Tanner knows better than that. M cares about her operatives and her employees as much as she cares about her children. The cold mask had shattered when M had stared at the eight coffins for an hour after the terrorist attacked._

_"I'm sorry to interrupt, Ma'am. But I've just received an urgent message from Q-branch. They're being hacked again."_

_The alarm in her blue eyes sharpens. She nods to the other members present, promising to continue at a less pressing time. Tanner collects all his things quickly and follows at M's shoulder._

_"How the hell can they get hacked twice in two days?" She demands, keeping up a pace that has them rushing down the halls to Q-branch without appearing flustered. Tanner types back a response to Q-branch and gives her a confused glance._

_"I don't know, Ma'am." The PA admits. He holds the door to Q-branch open for her. M whisks by, her heels clicking on the stone floors. Computers perch on desks surrounded by half-unpacked boxes. Every single employee in the room types with a frantic pace. No one looks up when M and Tanner approach._

_"What's going on here?" M demands again, her sharp eyes snapping around the messy room. The lead technician steps away from his own computer, his brow furrowed in concentration._

_"Someone's gotten into our system! Everything we've tried to do hasn't worked, ma'am!" Matthews reports, waving them over. He points to a window with over two dozen red dots pulsing on the screen._

_"I've managed to track the signal, but it bounces through all these computers in a continuous circle. None of these computers are controlled by the hacker."_

_M glares at the locations. The signal has been reflected through Argentina, The US, Bolivia, Russia, Thailand, England, and many more countries. Her hand slaps the table._

_"We cannot let them attack again!" She orders the room. "We've already lost eight -" _

_All the monitors go dark. Q-branch goes quiet. Employees type commands into their keyboards, but nothing changes. As suddenly as they went dark, the screens flicker back to life. Matthews pounces back onto his computer, swearing after a moment._

_"He's in!" He says in awe, green eyes reflecting the monitor's glow. Pages flick across the screen at a rapid fire pace. " He's has access to every file. "_

_"Do something about it!" Barks M, pacing back and forth. She can't send out an operative to kill an unknown hacker! What happened to espionage? The age of technology has given everyone the potential to topple governments._

_The temporary head of Q branch rattles of orders as he types. He swears with more imagination when the screen goes white. He types in a long string of binary coding and hits enter. The line of coding fills the top line of the page._

**_.I really do not want to waste my time decrypting binary code. Type, please._**

_The three of them stare at the line of text that appears on the screen. The silence stretches._

**_.You do speak English, yes? All your files are in English, after all._**

_M motions for Matthews to move and then types out a response._

**_..Stealing and destroying files will land you in jail._**

**_.I am well aware of the fact. I assume this is the head of the department. M, is it?_**

**_..You have some cheek hacking into MI6._**

**_.So it is M._**

_M tears her gaze away from the computer and makes the move to get up. Matthews waves her back down into the seat._

_"No, you're keeping him occupied! We might be able to force him out again."_

**_..Yes._**

**_.I am sorry to hear about the attack on your office._**

_M bristles at the computer before attacking the keys._

**_..Are you going to blow us up again? Like you did last time?_**

**_.What?_**

**_.That's wasn't me. I'm a white hat._**

_"A white hat is a hacker that breaks in for the sport." Matthews explains, typing on a separate computer after rebooting it._

**_..You hacked into MI6 just for the sport._**

**_.Well… That and curiosity._**

**_..Curiosity?_**

**_.Yes. I wanted to see how good the hacker would have to be to get in._**

_The typing halts in a short pause._

**_.And I was bored._**

**_..What person hacks into highly secure files to escape boredom?_**

**_.Someone like me, I guess. And I wouldn't call your files 'highly secure.'_**

_M sighs and shares a look with Tanner. The PA reads the interaction with the faintest hints of amusement._

**_.You have too many fractures in your firewalls and your encrypting codes are too simple. I could list a hundred other faults, too. No wonder the hacker didn't face much of a challenge when he hacked in. It is good for keeping the good hackers out, but not the best. That needs work._**

**_..You didn't seem to have a problem hacking into every single page and file on here._**

**_.That's because I am a lot better than the average crowd. And you agree._**

_The corner of M's mouth curls up despite herself. The hacker seems to be content just… _chatting_ with her. He has a lot of cheek hacking into them._

**_.And do tell the lead counter-hacker or whoever you got trying to tail me that I find their fruitless efforts quite adorable._**

_Matthews splutters in outrage while Tanner fails to hide a smile behind his hand._

**_..You can't blame us for trying._**

**_.No, I can't. But stop it. I really don't want to destroy your computer. I am a white hat and I would like to keep it that way._**

_Matthews stops typing on the computer and yells for everyone else to just stop._

**_..You're bloody good._**

**_.Did it take you that long?_**

**_..I have an offer._**

_M holds her breath as she types her reply out. If this hacker is one of the best, he would make a great asset to MI6 after the way he blew their security protocols out of the water._

_Alexander sips at his Earl Grey, savoring the slight, sweet taste of sugar. The message from M stands out on his screen in sharp contrast. The young man toys with his mouse, pleased that he doesn't have to run a dozen of programs now that he's not trying to be traced anymore. The head of MI6 seems to know when they are beaten._

**_.Go on._**

_He types after a long minute. Alexander can imagine the tension that crackles in the air at MI6. They've been hacked the day after a fatal attack on the building. All thoughts must be on the poor souls who died._

**_..I have a job offer._**

_Alexander leans forward, his mind racing to piece this into the situation. MI6 had to be motivated. And then he knows why. MI6 wants him on their side so he wouldn't dare to attack them again. Such compromises couldn't be tolerated with such sensitive data._

**_.For 'Queen and Country?' Not interested, sorry. I already have a job._**

_He replies, as honest as he's ever been. The young man doesn't want to spend his life being babysat by the government because he hacked them when he was bored. Besides, MI6 has no way of tracking him back to hear._

**_..I haven't even told you what you would be doing._**

_Alexander chuckles and finishes his tea. Typical government officials. They like to think they'd always get their way._

**_.I have a job already. I have no need to be placed behind a desk with your government thugs breathing down my neck to make sure I am not out of line._**

**_..Do you have an honest job?_**

_The young man snorts this time and types back his reply._

**_.Yes. A substitute teacher doesn't involve hacking into government files._**

**_..You barely make enough to make ends meet, yes?_**

**_.I hardly see how this is relevant._**

**_..There is a position here that has been opened recently. Your payment would be triple what you are getting now._**

_The mention of a stable income interests the young man. Alexander reclines back into his chair, fiddling with a lonely ballpoint pen. Not worrying about the rent would be a nice change, after all._

**_.What do you want?_**

**_..We want you on our side, Mr. White Hat. You will be in charge of our Q-branch, which deals with all the equipment that our operative receive before a mission. They also cover the technology aspect of MI6, which would interest you more. Your payment would start at about £20,000 at every quarter. If you prove to be invaluable, we can discuss your payment later._**

**_.My name isn't White Hat._**

_Alexander corrects, stalling for time while he thinks out the pros and cons. £80,000 is a lot of money in a year. As a single man, he could live comfortable. Very comfortable indeed._

**_..Please, correct me._**

**_.I would be a bloody idiot if I gave you my name. For hacking purposes, I am Q._**

**_..Why Q?_**

**_.I am a very good at scrabble._**

**_..Do you accept my offer, Q?_**

_Alexander has already decided by the time M asks the question. His fingers tremble a bit as he types out his response._

**_.I do._**

**_.I've always wanted to be a spy._**

**_..Good. Welcome to MI6, Quartermaster._**

**_.I suppose you are going to want to meet me._**

**_..Yes._**

_Alexander exits out of his programs without hesitation. His location would be blinking on some electronic map for everyone to see._

_**.I also suppose that I am going to have some company within the next ten minutes.**_

_**..Yes.**_

_**.To take me to MI6.**_

_**..Yes.**_

_**.And I haven't packed anything.**_

_**..We are well aware of the fact, Q. We will supply you with your own flat closer to the center of London. Your possessions will be moved.**_

_**.Ah… I guess I'll be meeting you soon.**_

_**..Yes.**_

_**.I'll get out of your system now. I guess it was a good thing I decided to hack today.**_

_**..I would agree.**_

_Alexander closes the last program and sags in his chair. Bloody Hell! Of all things that could've happened, being offered a job was not one the list of scenarios. The young man tilts his head back and laughs until his ribs hurt. What would Mycroft say to this?!_

_He gets up from his chair to make himself more presentable. A few stray computer parts litter the coffee and kitchen tables. Alexander snags them and tosses them into the bin. He pulls out his most decent clothes, but nothing too formal. He knows men in black suits and dark shades would appear in his flat but that doesn't mean he has to follow their fashion codes. The young man wriggles into a red cardigan, cleans his teeth, brushes his hair, and adjusts his glasses all within the span of a few minutes._

_Alexander packs his computer in his case with gentle motions. He gives it a friendly pat before he zips up the case. The young man sits in his leather chair, waiting. Nervous fingers dance across his knees, flowing through lines of imaginary code. Everything would be fine. He just got offered a job at MI6!_

_The sharp ring of the bell brings him to his feet. He sets his face into an unreadable expression and squares his shoulders before opening the door. As predicted, two man stand in the door in black suits and even blacker shades. Muscles bulge beneath the tailored fabric._

_The two men study him behind their shades. The young man lifts his chin and arches an eyebrow._

_"I do think your employer wants me at MI6 as soon as possible."_

_"Of course, sir. This way." The man on the left replies, motioning down the hall. The hacker glances back at his flat one last time and gives the wall an affectionate pat. He's lived here for the past two years and it was the first place the young man owned._

_Alexander Holmes is the young man staring around the small flat. Q is the young man who steps outside with the two agents from MI6._

* * *

"Sir?"

Q jumps, giving the employee a stern glare. From the woman's expression, she has been calling him for a few minutes.

"Are you alright, sir?" She inquires. Victoria-Q's mind supplies- takes another step forward and offers a small stack of papers to him. Q accepts them with a nod.

"Sorry. I was thinking of some improved coding I could test out."

"It's no problem. We know how busy you are."

The young man watches her walk away with a small smile. As stupid as his employees are, they mean well. Q-branch isn't too bad compared to a class of students, Alexander decides. The young man chuckles to himself before beginning to flip through the paperwork.

* * *

**Look at that! About three thousand words for you to enjoy! I was able to do all of this in a day, thanks to a really boring BIM class. I enjoy it, but do I really need to learn how to work Microsoft Word 2010? I have it! **

**Can anyone else tell that I couldn't help making Q one of the Holmes Boys? He just fits so well into that category! Alexander Holmes. Doesn't that have a nice ring to it? ;P**

**Please reply! It makes me so happy and you might even get rewarded with longer chapters. It inspires me to please you!**


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